


Two Photos from Last Christmas

by Debate



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/M, Getting Back Together, Hopeful Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: Murphy got Emori’s Christmas gift back in March. Since then he’s lost his job, been dumped, lived on Bellamy’s couch, changed career paths entirely, and has finally gotten his own place only to rediscover that Christmas present. The problem is he has no idea what to do with it now. [Modern AU]





	Two Photos from Last Christmas

Murphy’s new landlord isn’t thrilled that he’s coming to pick up his keys on Christmas Eve. But that’s hardly Murphy’s fault. His new schedule is still kicking his ass. Being the new guy who’s still rotating between twelve hour day and night shifts is a big difference from eight hour construction work days, but he’s handling it, so his landlord can too. It’s not like he’s asking a lot. 

His new building has an elevator that’s only ‘a little finicky’ so by Murphy’s standards its high living. He shoves his stuff into it after getting the key and allows himself to slump against the dirty mirror wall. Finding a place is such a hassle, and moving on top of it just sucks. Especially when he has to do it all alone. 

He shoulders his way into the new place, boxes precariously balanced in his hands. He sets them down without ceremony, wishing some grain of excitement would rise up in him, but nope. 

Under normal circumstances Murphy wouldn’t consider unpacking the worst part of moving. A pain, sure, but it usually meant the hard work was done, and left the anticipation of a new place to grow into and explore. It’s different when all he has to his name is three boxes, groceries, a duffel bag filled with his clothes, and the blow up air mattress Bellamy had lent him. Depressing really. But he has his own place again, so he tries not to let it get to him. 

He leaves the single set of dining implements on the kitchen counter, plugs in his old laptop to charge, and throws the sheets onto the bed once it inflates. There’s little to be done after that since he’s not going to put his clothes in the closet right now, other than set up the one lamp he has, and leave his toiletries in the bathroom. 

He debates removing the stuff in the third box, not quite remembering what’s in it. As far as he can remember it mostly holds miscellaneous stuff: a throw pillow, a first aid kit, three books—only one of which he’s read— and the contents of his old junk drawer. But there’s also a picture frame at the bottom. 

His pulse quickens as he lifts it out of the box, shame and disappointment running in his blood. The boxes had been tucked away for the months he’d been subsiding on Bellamy’s couch and wavering patience, and he had forgotten what he’d shoved into them in the emotional turmoil following the day Emori had walked out. 

It’s a two-photo picture frame that he’d bought back in March. The picture on the left is pretty normal, just something he could put into the second slot. It’s from last Christmas, when Harper had insisted that they get one good non-selfie photo of the seven of them. They had ended up taking three, because Bellamy had messed up the timer, but that first picture, snapped a moment too early, is still Murphy’s favorite. It features Bellamy tripping over Murphy’s legs, his arms outstretched in the second before he went careening into Raven and Echo who were squeezed in together on the armchair, both their faces unmasked in shock and amused horror. Monty stands behind them, his wide-eyed face somehow funnier than Bellamy’s; maybe because his arms are full of Harper, who had been perched on the back of the chair and promptly went careening into him at the disturbance. Looking back on it, Murphy can’t remember if he had stuck his leg out and tripped Bellamy on purpose or not. His own smile doesn’t reveal if Bellamy’s fall was premeditated or not, but looking at Emori sitting on the floor next to him, her face caught in a laugh and eyes bright, he thinks maybe they had come up with the idea together. It’s something the Murphy and Emori of a year ago would have done. 

His thumb can’t help but trace the curve of her cheek as he relearns the photo, when he realizes he’s doing it his attention shifts to the second photo, forcing himself to hold onto the edges of the frame. 

The second photo is the special one. It was complete luck that he had come across it. A local paper he had flipped through out of boredom one day had a featured story about one of the group homes downtown to commemorate its fiftieth anniversary. Pages six and seven were dedicated to photos through the years, and one of them, in the bottom left corner was of Emori and Otan, sitting on the front steps of the home. Neither of them were credited in the picture, and the caption read only ‘Christmastime, 1998’ but of course he recognized Emori, even with all her miniature features not looking directly into the camera and despite the fact she was sitting on her left hand to hide it away. 

Emori didn’t have any pictures of herself from when she was younger, and only a few of Otan that she refused to display, and he knew she deserved more than a newspaper clipping, so he had contacted the journalist who had done the article, and through persistence and some lying had gotten a proper printed copy. 

The pictures were going to be her Christmas present. 

Historically, he’s been a pretty lousy gift-giver, and after putting the frame together back in March he had thought he’d actually succeeded in being a thoughtful boyfriend instead of just getting whatever generic item Emori claimed she needed. Of course the whole ‘thoughtful boyfriend’ thing had gone down the drain back in June. Being jobless hadn’t been good for him, especially when McCreary had gotten off scot free because he was the forman and Murphy got saddled with criminal charges on top of getting sacked even when he wasn’t the one who’d started the fist fight. Still, taking his frustrations and built up turmoil out on Emori was a shit thing to do, in retrospect. 

But at the time her promotion and raise (she didn’t even need his income to cover the other half of the rent anymore) just seemed put into place to spite him. Sitting home alone all day had made it worse. Hoping for a call back from just one of the places he’d sent out his resume, only for Emori to come home for half an hour before going out to get drinks he couldn’t afford with their friends who were all too keen on charity. 

The insults hadn’t been warranted, and neither had the yelling, or the childish refusing to talk to her. Distancing himself from the group had only compounded it all. And he only really recognized he was self-sabotaging after he had gotten back on his feet and had been living with Bellamy’s near daily lectures, which came after she’d dumped him. 

“So you learned a lesson,” Bellamy had said sometime back in September. “You’re an asshole. I could have told you that ages ago, but hey, at least now you can grow from it.” 

“Fuck off,” he had said at the time, but even back then he’d been working on it. Meeting Raven’s new boyfriend, going to Echo’s work thing when Bellamy was sick, attending Monty and Harper’s garden party even though he had to wear a button down. Stuff he didn’t want to do, until he had done it and remembered there was a reason he was friends with these people. 

He still avoided Emori for a long time though. Raven rolled her eyes everytime he asked if she was going to be around, but as far as he could tell that was pretty normal. Emori is the only ex he has, but he thought keeping his distance was pretty par for the course. 

But keeping that up was near impossible, considering all their mutual friends. So he stuck around when she came over for Bellamy’s movie nights and he doesn’t have the groupchat on mute anymore. Sometimes he even replies to stuff. The group acts as a good buffer, making it so that he and Emori only have to have tangential interactions. Of course that doesn’t prevent him from wanting to throw up his heart everytime he sees her. So it’s not like they’re having one-on-one conversations.

But maybe he should give the gift to her. It wasn’t expensive or anything, and it might get them closer to being Just Friends, which he really dreads the idea of, but would still be better than being nothing. Unless she still hates his guts, which is definitely a possibility and a good reason not to give her a Christmas present. 

He slips his phone out of his pocket. He could ask Raven, she and Emori talk the most and she’d know where Emori is on the spectrum of liking to hating him. But that’s dumb. Not only is there probably some girl code that would get in the way of her telling him, but asking someone else where you stand with your own ex-girlfriend is too sad of a concept for him to stoop down to. 

That’s something he should actually talk to Emori about. Technically there’s nothing stopping him from calling her. He flops into his shitty bed, staring blankly at his phone, as his thumb catches on Emori’s name. He still has her number of course. The green heart sits next to her name in his recent contacts, as if the last time he texted her wasn’t two months ago. 

What a stupid message it was too, _Emori?_ , sent at a quarter after midnight on a Tuesday, and he’d actually thought she’d respond. Show’s what loneliness can do to your brain. 

Scrolling through their old messages is probably some kind of fucked up anti-therapy, but he does it anyway, maybe because six months later he’s still being sustained by the hollow itch in his chest he feels whenever he thinks about her. It’s motivating at least, better than feeling nothing. 

Their texts from when things were going downhill aren’t the worse. Most of them are brief—neither of them are the kind of people to take their frustrations to a third platform. If anything, the worst part is seeing how little they were talking. It’s the ones from when they were happy together that hurt the most. 

Making plans for dinner or when they’d go out, coupled with random links to articles or youtube videos that made them think of one another. Stories from work that couldn’t wait till they got home and screenshots from the groupchat they had to dissect one-on-one. The. _I miss you_ s and _I love you_ s and Emori’s adorable affinity for the vulcan hand emoji. 

He’s lost track of the amount of times he’s clicked the ‘load more messages button’ when the blue light makes his vision start to blur. He blinks hard and scrolls to the bottom again, that same stupid message there for him to reread, the echoing lack of response. There’s no way she’d want him to call her. He drops his phone to his chest and tugs on the ends of his own hair, a frustrated growl escaping from his throat and bouncing off the ceiling of his mostly empty apartment. 

He plugs his phone into an outlet on the wall, far enough away that he won’t be tempted to get out of bed and check it. He doesn’t call her. 

The good thing about working for emergency services is that people still need to work on Christmas. It’s a good thing for Murphy at least, his usual partner found someone to switch shifts with so she could spend the day with family. The guy working the shift with him today is Jewish, and even he doesn’t seem to want to be there. Not that Murphy doesn’t also want to still be in bed after the shit night of sleep he had, but this at least provides a distraction. He’s sort of hoping someone’s arteries get clogged after one sugar cookie too many just so he can have something to do. 

They get three calls out, but nothing overly exciting or worrying. Their shift ends at five, so at least he doesn’t have to deal with all the merry drunks who’ll no doubt crawl out of the woodwork and crash into light poles later that evening. His partner wishes him a Merry Christmas as they part ways, which is nice of him, but only really serves to annoy him. 

He gets home and has every intention of reheating leftovers and going to bed at seven, but that stupid picture frame is still sitting on the floor of his remarkably empty apartment, his own smiling face from a year ago mocking him. He can’t look away at it as he slurps wonton soup, for the first time noticing the way one of Emori’s legs overlaps his in the bottom photo. Her smile is so wide. 

Fuck it. The guy in that picture would do anything if he thought it had a chance at making Emori happy. There’s no point in him keeping it, and throwing it out would be a waste. She might not want anything to do with him, but if he leaves it at her place, no confrontation, with a note to explain, she can’t be too mad. 

The note he writes is short, no frills. He debates signing it for a long time, but she’ll recognize his handwriting regardless so in the end he writes down his full name, not just J. Murphy like how he normally does, and tapes it to the back of the frame. 

The walk to Raven and Emori’s apartment isn’t long, but the spitting rain and biting wind don’t make it pleasant. Tears sting his eyes by the time he makes his way inside on the heels of a tenant. He was planning on leaving the present in the mailbox, but it’s far too small. He makes his way upstairs, two at a time because he doesn’t want to linger in the building. Raven’s apartment is the furthest one down the hallway of the third floor. He takes over-large footsteps down the checkered carpet floor, as if that might make the urge to check over his shoulder lessen. He should have succumbed to it. 

“John?” It’s Emori, calling out at the mouth of the stairwell, the rain matting down her hair, her cheeks and nose a violent red, and her lips cracked. She’s beautiful. He wants to tear his heart out. “What are you doing here?” 

She doesn’t sound angry at least, tentative and wary, sure, but not angry. 

“Uh,” he says, even knowing that with each second he leaves her question unanswered her frustration will only mount in preparation to spear him. He flounders for a moment, trying to think of an excuse that would explain his presence. Typical. For the first time in his life the only lie he can think of is the truth. 

“It’s--I got you a Christmas present,” he says, digging his index finger into the hole in his glove, “From before we broke up. Not exactly something I could return, and I thought you should still have it. So, uh, I was just going to drop it off. You weren’t supposed to see me.” He licks his lips, still chapped from the cold, and dares to meet her eyes and criticism. 

The moment is flat and awkward as she steps forward slowly, unlacing her scarf from around her neck as she approaches. Her steps seem over large too. He hands over the gift when she’s close enough but he’s careful to keep the distance far and impersonal. She takes it in hand, a little frown between her eyebrows, and he kind of wishes he went to the trouble of wrapping it now. He doesn’t want to see her reaction. 

“I’ll just...go,” he says, his hands stuffed deep inside his pockets as he steps around her, a good arm’s width between their bodies. 

“John?” Emori says, and of course he stops and turns back to look at her. “You didn’t have to-” 

“I know,” he interrupts, “But it’s been sitting in a box for the last nine months. You should have it. I promise I’m not trying to make a gesture or anything.” 

“Okay,” Emori says lowly, her hands on the edges of the frame clenched as if they’re cramped from the cold. “You still didn’t have to, though. So thank you.” 

He offers a quick nod and grimacing smile, having every intention of leaving, but his gaze catches the tears floating on Emori’s waterline and suddenly his feet are stuck in his shoes. 

The thing is he knows what to say to comfort her. It sits on his tongue like a pearl, a gift he could give her if he just opened his mouth. The problem is it’s not his place anymore. So he swallows instead. 

But Emori has never been one to sit with her emotions, and it’s no surprise that a few blinks later her eyes are clear. Maybe even brighter. 

“Have you eaten?” Emori asks, quickly enough to confuse him. “Monty doesn’t know how to cook for only six apparently. I have leftovers. You can come in if you want.” 

There are so many reasons to say no. He has eaten. She’s his ex-girlfriend. It’s Christmas and he just worked a twelve hour shift. 

“If you’re sure,” he says instead, and when she gives a nod he follows her inside. 

“Uh, where’s Raven?” he asks, as they move to the kitchen. The apartment looks the same as the last time he was here, as if Emori hasn’t added any of herself to the place. 

“She’s meeting Shaw’s family,” Emori answers, turning on the stovetop, “Apparently they have a Christmas tradition of driving around after dinner to look at the lights, so she got invited to tag along.” 

“Oh,” he says, watching her dish out some of Monty’s famous green bean casserole and a bit of ham from his place on the far wall, “I didn’t realize they were that serious.” 

“Yeah,” Emori says, “She really likes him.” 

He nods, tugging on the loose thread in his glove until it’s close enough to unraveling that he has to stuff them in his pockets if he wants to have both gloves to wear on the walk home. There’s a long silence as Emori stands over the stove with more dillegance than is really required, and as he hates himself for being fixated on her small movements. Her eyes flick back to him too many times to count, but she tears her gaze away countless times too. Her expression is held tight. 

She pours herself a glass of water, and grabs a plate and fork for him. She drinks as he eats, and it’s clear both of them are grateful for the occupation of their hands and mouths. If he had more courage he’d ask her why she invited him in. As it is he’s grateful, despite the pressure on his chest and the awkward eye contact. 

“I’ll have to tell Monty he’s triumphed again,” he says, taking his last bite. He makes a big show about scraping the plate with the side of the fork, hating himself for not wanting to leave yet. 

Maybe Emori knows that because the next thing she says is, “We missed you at dinner.” 

“I was working,” he answers automatically, but when he thinks about what she said it’s like his heart is shaking in his chest. 

“I know,” Emori says, “Bellamy said...How do you like it? Being an EMT?” 

“Yeah, it’s good,” he says, “The courses were cool, hands on, and Abby wrote me a letter of rec, so they overlooked the charges...I like it a lot. It’s exciting, different all the time. I get to drive an ambulance. There are sirens. Blood and guts.”

“Sounds good for you,” Emori says, maybe at the joke, maybe because she’s happy for him. “What’s your grossest story?” 

And her smile is still there so of course he has to explain the guy who had somehow managed to get his thigh impaled by his own bike. Emori scrunches her nose and laughs at all the appropriate places, and he hadn’t noticed them drifting towards one another until he almost hit her with his fork while miming the angle of the bike seat. 

“Sorry,” he says, moving around her to get to the sink, “I’ll just wash up and get out of your hair.” 

“John, you don’t have to…”

“Nah, I ate your lunch for Monday, pretty sure I’m an asshole if I make you do dishes on Christmas.” 

“I already did dishes at Monty and Harper’s,” she points out, but she lets him put soap in the ratty sponge and clean the plate. And maybe he scrubs for longer than he needs too, and rinses it twice, and towel dries it too when the rack is right there. It’s already been established that he’s pathetic, doing an overly thorough job cleaning dishes really isn’t the worst thing he’s done. 

“Sparkling,” he says, presenting it to her to put away. She smiles, and for a moment it isn’t awkward, they’ve done dishes together a thousand times. Of course, just thinking about how it isn’t awkward makes that squirming feeling in his chest reappear. He coughs. “Well, I’ll get going then,” he starts, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Wait,” Emori says, reaching out to grab his wrist. He doesn’t look down to where she’s touching him because he knows if he does she’ll let go. She licks her lips, which she really shouldn’t do when they’re standing this close together. “Could you hang up the picture frame for me?” 

He nods without thinking, considering for the first time that maybe she doesn’t want him to leave either. Sure, he worked in construction for nearly five years, but she’s a mechanic. She shouldn’t have any trouble putting a nail in her wall “Where do you want it?”

She holds the frame crooked in her arm and leads the way out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into her bedroom. He stops in the doorway. 

Emori has always been something of a mess, perfectly okay with living in her own clutter. They had spent an entire afternoon bickering about her actually hanging her clothes up in the closet once, but those habits are incomparable to this situation; her room now is something out of a reality tv show. Cardboard boxes are stacked up on one another in almost all the available floor space. There are three side tables next to Emori’s bed, a rolled up rug leaning against the dresser which has four lamps sitting on it. 

That carpet used to lay in their living room. There’s probably still a stain from when he’d spilled chili on it after Emori had him laughing too hard. Those lamps used to be the only light they had in their bedroom because the one window was snug against a brick wall an alley over. He still remembers all the slightly different clicks they’d make as he turned them off in preparation for bed. 

“Um,” he says, stuck in the threshold. Emori shimies her way through the disorder to hold the picture up to the wall. 

“Here?” she asks. It’s the left wall. She always slept on the left side. In that spot the frame will be the first thing she’ll see most mornings. He blinks hard several times. 

“Sure,” he says, “You have a hammer and nail? I’ll probably need a measuring tape too.” 

“Of course,” Emori says, “One sec.” She roots through some of the boxes until she pulls out a toolbox. His toolbox. The one filled with odds and ends he’d stolen from work over a handful of months. He hasn’t thought about it in the longest time. She hands it over and he takes out what he’ll need, sticking a nail between his lips. Finding a stud isn’t a problem, and too quickly the frame hangs on the wall. 

“That straight?” he asks, taking a step back. 

“I don’t really care about it being straight,” Emori says and his eyes can’t help but fall to the disarray about the room as he nods in agreement. 

“I know it’s a mess,” she says, but not like she’s offended. “I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet. Didn’t seem worth it when half this stuff is yours.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. It’s been months, and it’s not like he’s asked her for any of his old shit, and she hadn’t tried to pawn it off on him either. Keeping it that long without using it seems pointless. Emori knows that, no doubt, judging by the way she sinks onto her bed, looking at the frame. It’s the only thing hanging on any of her walls, he notices. 

“We could sort through it,” she says. “If you want.” 

“Emori.” He shakes his head, he’s barely stopped looking at her this whole time, but he has to now. “I don’t really want to be in your bedroom right now.” 

That sits between them, like a rotting apple no one wants to throw out of the bowl. So far they’ve managed to avoid talking about them, because this is the first time they’ve spent any lengthy amount of time one-on-one since they broke up. But now it sits out there to be prodded and examined.

“Oh,” she says, and she sounds hurt. He grimaces, and that gray, niggling part of him that hates himself bruises even more. He forces himself to explain. 

“I can’t be just friends with you right now, okay? I’m still in love with you, and it doesn’t…” he drifts off upon noticing the pink in Emori’s cheeks, the strain in her throat. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to say that, was he? “Sorry. I’ll...I’ll leave.” 

Except that maneuvering out of the room in his semi-frantic state makes him knock over one of the boxes, it’s contents spilling onto the floor. Emori springs to her feet, and he scrambles down, replacing the items while he tries to avoid even the sight of her shoes. His heartbeat skitters in his chest regardless. 

“John, John, it’s fine,” Emori says, her hands reaching out and lying on the back of his, and of course that catches him, the only option to look into her eyes. She has such an expressive face, but he’s not used to seeing it any more. Her jaw is held solid, maybe so it won’t tremble, and her eyes are wide. “I’m sorry,” she says, and his brow twitches in confusion. 

“Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who was such a jackass. I shouldn’t have treated you like that,” he says, and then, because he’s just realized he’s never said it, “I’m sorry about that. Really.”

Emori blinks, twice, and know that he thinks about it, he might have blurted that out of left field, from her perspective. Keeping things inside the box has never been a specialty of his apparently. Part of the reason he needs to leave, and he should, but Emori had caught him in her net a long time ago. 

“I accept your apology.” 

He feels lighter, a weight on his chest he hadn’t know was there is gone. Emori doesn’t hate him. 

“Thanks,” he says, because it seems the only reasonable thing to say. He straightens, the mess on her floor mostly cleaned up. 

“I was going to say I miss you.” He must look as confused as he feels because Emori repeats herself. “I was going to say I miss you, that’s why I wanted to…” she throws her arm in a gesture, towards her apartment at large or these weird and precious collection of moments they’ve been having. “I’m sorry that’s not what you wanted. It’s just…” she pauses, looks his straight in the eye, and then says with conviction, “I still love you too.”

He grinds his teeth, the taste between them bitter and sweet and dissolving on his tongue. But then he shakes his head a little, because he knows by now that it’s not enough, that he doesn’t deserve it. 

“What?” Emori asks, searching, prodding, something watery in her voice. 

“I don’t know? What am I supposed to say to that?” He asks, and in his head he sounds more outraged, more overwhelmed. In reality, the words come out soft. And scared. 

Emori swallows something down. “I don’t know. Don’t you want to try again?” 

There it is. He wants to throw up his heart. “You do?” he manages to choke out. He’s only just learned that she doesn’t still hate him. It seems too far a jump. 

Her jaw stutters before it snaps shut, and he was right, it was too far a jump. She doesn’t know how to handle this any more than he does. So where does that leave them? 

“Yes, John, I do,” she says, surprising him. “I didn’t really think you’d get back here again. I thought you’d keep falling apart.” She’s sounds ashamed about not having faith in him, but he can’t really be offended when he hadn’t had any in himself either. “But you still care about your future, and our friends.” She bites her lip, turning a bright pink. She looks at the picture frame. “You still care about me.” 

He never stopped, but it’s not like his past behavior is very reflective of that. And now who he is and who he was a few months ago is blended together in his head. Just a bunch of mush Emori doesn’t deserve. 

“It’s just a Christmas present,” he says, an ache in his throat coming up with the words, and Emori looks at him with disbelief. 

“John, Christmas didn’t mean anything to me until I met you! God, for me and Otan, Christmas was just the day where we even more unloved. But that…” She points at picture frame hanging on the wall, that first picture of all of them, the one he had printed out as an afterthought, had taken for granted. “You, with all of them, made it actually mean something.” 

It takes a lot for Emori to cry. As a teenager she had thought it made her weak and had beaten it out of herself. But there’s that shine to her eyes again, the same as when she had first seen it, and a wet break in her voice. 

“It’s my favorite Christmas present,” she says. “And if you got it back in March, I think it’s important to you too.” 

Damn it. She knows him too well. 

“Of course it means something to me,” he forces himself to say, some previously unknown courage swelling in him. “Because you do. You mean...so much to me.” 

“Then let’s try again,” she says, insistence pushing at the end of each word. And he finds himself nodding, because that’s what he wants, even if there’s that quibbling part of him still thinks she deserves better; but if he was meant to learn anything from all of this it was probably that Emori gets to decide what she deserves. 

Emori smiles, dazzling, like she always is, and doubts rush from his mind. 

“You’re coming to Echo’s New Year’s party, right?” He asks, and Emori nods, smile widening. 

“Was she nagging you about it too?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he confirms, the corners of his mouth beginning to ache, but in a pleasant way he has no intention of stopping. “I didn’t mind too much, though. I’ve got this feeling it’ll be a good year.”

**Author's Note:**

> idk how I feel about this fic, but hey, it's christmas! hope whereever/whenever you're reading this you're having a great day!


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